


CHARADE

by vanhunks



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 19:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4275942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanhunks/pseuds/vanhunks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A meeting place. A deep forest glade. Joy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	CHARADE

**Author's Note:**

> The characters are not mine.
> 
> Originally, only Part One was written as a stand-alone story, then I added the other parts.

 

 

 

 

   
   
PART ONE: CHARADE  
   
The forest is quiet. A kind of stillness, a pause or, even as it breathes through blades of grass or exotic petals or leaves that sway imperceptibly in the hazy memory or suggestion of a breeze - anticipates an arrival - not incongruous to its surroundings but merging into another facet of the wooded area. It becomes a sentient entity, a whole being aware of  motion, of sounds, sounds still to come, others that have passed, gratified by the budding fullness of all that belongs to it.  
   
On a low overhanging branch the bird of paradise perches motionless, and yet in its state of stillness the very movement of its velvet feathers becomes part of the forest breathing. Long, long, in elegant trajectory, its plumes trail, deep bright yellow that ease gently into pale until they are white at their tips. Here and there on the ground the undergrowth is short, with grass that somehow inveigles itself into this part of the forest, a mocking paradox of order against the profusion of colour, of the diverse and abundant wildness of the glade. Maybe the bird of paradise claims much of what is orderly by its ancient genetic coding - proud head with curved, sharp dark beak, a breastplate that glows, the iridescence complimented by the deep ochre of  its wings, the burst of colour in the long plumes - shades of yellow - that denotes order.  
   
This is the scene Chakotay loves. Hardly moving himself, imitating the quiet bird with its glittering breastplate in its stillness, he waits. Waiting becomes a desirable element of his presence here, part of what is to come, to happen, yet his heartbeat never registers any heightened anticipation of an event. He knows, like the forest senses a deep awareness that the enchantment, started the moment he himself entered, will today inexorably finds its conclusion.  
   
He picks up a sound. Nothing that had been there before, nothing that disturbs the comforting silence. It's just there, on the fringes of his conscious, establishing itself as the softest footfall, a placing down of one foot carefully - first the heel, then fluidly, gradually tapering until the toe connects with blades of grass, their springy texture sagging under the merest placement of weight. The bird sways, then as if it knows, it tilts forward and back, as if in a bow, the elegantly curved plumes fanning to complete its veneration.  
   
Chakotay checks his uniform. Today it is neater than usual, crisper, the collar of his turtleneck only mildly uncomfortable as his temperature increases. He listens to the soft footsteps as they come nearer, the steps sure, unerringly directed towards the small clearing.  
   
In the semi-dark it's her hair he notices first, gleaming in moonbeams throwing dappled patches artlessly over the glade. Once, he had had sunlight in the forest clearing, but its glare had been too intrusive, too sharp in its reminder that they were in artificially created surroundings. He had seen her face, had seen the retreat in her blue-grey eyes, once liquid with heat, then the cold welling over to mask them completely. Twilight provided them with a better shroud where it was easier to sustain an element of real within the unreal. Now, it was better. The half dark was what it suggested, a haze through which he could see her, touch her, caress the golden flames of hair and for a while at least, remain part of the world they created - an illusion only because they acknowledge a reality somewhere in their beings - shifted slightly, but always there.  
   
She glides effortlessly into his arms and he welcomes her; the way his arms lock about her, releasing their grip seconds later so that he can caress her cheek, a tone, a mark, a gesture that is at once familiar and thrillingly new. The touch is ethereal, yet it transmits a message that travels through her body, lighting up every nerve, creating a radiant glow that finally rests in her eyes. Her lips curve into a smile and he remembers the first smile, eons ago, as clearly as if it were just happening. It was a smile that accentuated, underscored, invited, yet always established rank, their place on their ship and the determined preservation of that rank.  
   
He pulls her closer to him, lowers his head for their first kiss, a searing affirmation of their appointment. Her mind, once ordered, throws off those shackles that wound themselves tightly around her emotions, her sensuality, her untapped eroticism and joins in the whirl, the heady and breathless contagion of chaos - a glorious relinquishing of the self to be caught up and assimilated, only to found a whole new being made up of him, her, equal...  
   
The forest breathes with her, an uneven corroboration of the beating of her heart as she appraises the man in front of her. There is passion hidden in the depths of his eyes: an animal - wolf perhaps, or more likely the fleet-footed cheetah of the African plains - coiled, about to pounce and stake its claim. It's in the way his fingers flex, the barely discernable rise and fall of his chest, the way the dimple undeepens and smoothes his cheek. He doesn't smile; there is a resolved air about him.  
   
But she knows. He wants to play, prolong the inevitable between them. She likes the glade, the soft woodland glow in moonlight, the way the leaves sway, the bird of paradise he insists is part of the allure, the enchantment.  
   
She throws her head back as he leans in, his lips barely brushing her jawbone, his tongue playfully flicking her chin. The whirling sensation is extended, evolves into flames that scorch the hollow of her neck. Once more, Kathryn is only hazily aware that Chakotay has picked off her rank pips, one by one, slowly,  deliberately engineering the stripping of her uniform. The pips land somewhere in the soft grass, but she doesn't care. A sound…a distant call, perhaps the bird of paradise or its mate that encroaches on the remnants of her consciousness, reminds her that her fingers, nimble, swift, must remove his Maquis pin, dropping it into the grass with careless abandon. There is no sound as they begin the slow ritual of undressing; vestiges of rank are removed or as, when still in her tank top, Chakotay's mouth fixes on her breast that strains against the fabric. She runs her fingers through his hair as she merges with him. Her mouth is open, but no cry escapes, not even in the sudden heated contact of his teeth as he nips her breast. No cry…save those issuing from the exotic bird on the branch.  
   
Chakotay revels in this sensual undressing, his breath though heated, steamy and cool on her skin as he presses her to him. Their skins are damp, their smell as heady as the contemplation of their joining.  Kathryn buries her face against him in a wordless litany, a silent invocation of her knowledge of this man, that here, or in another place, another dusk where the sun had already set and the semi-dark becomes a most desired cloak, can through her action alone express unbridled passion, love.  
   
Chakotay sees her smile, this time an invitation, coolly, lovingly challenging, taking their game to the next plane. He has long known that she could be who she was in these moments - undeniably attractive, all woman, all feral in her desire, discarding all reserve of which their dress, their badges, their pins are the ugly metaphors of reality. He has long understood that his body will forever strain towards her in primal need, that hers reciprocates that need but riding pillion with those desires also the acknowledgement that they can only, like a well-made crème brûlée, nibble and relish it for a short period and live on the memory of that taste. They cherish them, these moments, protecting them fiercely, even selfishly.  
   
Did the forest hold its breath? Did the bird of paradise stop dipping its head up and down or sway from side to side so that its plumes trembled in the slight breeze? Did the broad leaves stop their rustling to join in the reverence of the moment?  
   
When they lie down on the grass, they are only aware of movement, of their mingling breaths, of his hands on her body, of her hands pulling his face against her bosom, of shifting, of settling, of drawing up of her legs, of the bird of paradise calling in more melodious tones than the most beautiful human voice, of finally crying gutturally, grunting incoherently as they claw, bite, score, kiss, merge. He reaches into her, discovers her deepest, innermost mysteries and she welcomes his lack of control, the way his face contorts into something shapeless, yet irrefutably Chakotay.  
   
Kathryn grasps blindly as she tries to find something in the vortex of passion to hold on to, her fingers crushing clumps of grass, breaking...breaking, knuckles white as she is lifted somewhere. She knows not where. Only the smell - ironically not the bruised blades of grass, but cloves -  draws her back to her temporary earth. Her face, like Chakotay's, twists into almost ugliness in the eye of the storm. Her eyes are wild, her mouth open, her hair matted against her damp forehead. Like someone in shock too extreme, staring with glazed eyes at death, in the throes of that death where for a moment everything coalesces into a mindless paradise of pleasure. To Chakotay, it is the final Kathryn, at her most vulnerable. He treasures her vulnerability, just as he treasures her love, their complete harmony as they are lifted down by soft clouds.  
   
He stares into her eyes, a stare that penetrates into her heart, finds the truth there. They mirror his own eyes and the truth that lies deep in his heart. Finally he kisses her in a lingering caress.  
   
He pulls her up and they take one last look at the forest, its trees, its grass, the profusion of colour, the diversity of sight and sound, shape and texture, the chaos, their stirring emotions. Kathryn places her palm against his chest, absently trailing  her fingers down to his navel. A soft sigh as she relinquishes the touch.  
   
They must leave.  
   
They must leave their paradise behind, their counterfeit reality which they cosset possessively.  
   
Chakotay nods, his face wan, sombre.  
   
"Computer, end programme…"  
   
*  
   
Bright light as the holodeck is illuminated to hundred percent. They stand facing one another, still naked, with their uniforms lying about them. Slowly, reluctantly, they begin to dress. Chakotay bends down one last time to pick up his Maquis pin and her four rank pins. They lie strewn about on the holodeck floor, shiny pips stark against the gleaming smoothness. When he has collected them all, she takes his and pins it on his collar. Then, just as he had when he removed her pips, he begins to pin each one back, slowly, soberly. They stand like they did eons ago when the magic of New Earth was over, waiting for Voyager to beam them aboard. Stiffly, hands at their sides. Kathryn takes one last look around her, same as she knows Chakotay is doing.  
   
The grid mocks them, the floor with its grey-to-black and yellow rectangles and the walls with their diamond shapes, the panels lit by light sources. They blink from the glare of those lights. Ugly, real, normal, Voyager.  
   
Kathryn leaves first, then Chakotay, staring at the holodeck doors, hesitates, sighs, then makes his exit.  
   
In the morning they sit in their command chairs. The day has begun. Between their chairs the console that joins them, separates them. They look at the main viewscreen, thinking of their time together. Each one immersed in thought. Their loving had been shattering, all consuming; their bodies still recording late surges of desire, still sensing the pull.  
   
Once, she turns to glance at him, but his attention is on what Tom is doing at the conn. No sigh escapes this time. They sink into thoughts of their past passion, of images of clawing, straining bodies, open mouths, breaths mingling, stripped of all boundaries. They think of the seductive way in which Chakotay removed each rank pip, of the way Kathryn touched his chest, feeling the spirals of sensual energy passing through them. She thinks of the smell of grass, of cloves, hears the cry of the bird of paradise with its brilliant yellow plumage. He thinks of how he entered her body in a strong thrust, hearing her moan of capitulation as she welcomed him. Again, he sees how he cupped her breasts, how Kathryn's fingers dug not into his back like always, but the grass. She sees again his strength, his gleaming nude body, well toned, quivering in readiness, uncoiling…joining…  
   
But they never speak of it.  
   
Once, long ago, she had gone to the holodeck in search of peace, and she found Chakotay there. They made love, without once speaking of that love, without once speaking.  
   
They always leave silently, just as they enter silently, instinctively knowing that words are inconvenient, time consumers that, absent, leaves them with only the wordless expression of love.  
   
Sometimes months pass before they find their way to their created paradise. Then for months, they could feed on what they shared. It has to serve them for now, for now it's all they have, all they can allow.  
   
They dare not contemplate how long this will continue.  
   
***  
   
   
   
PART TWO: THE LETTER

Dear Captain Janeway and Commander Chakotay

Please do not be worried about what is contained in this letter. We have deliberated long over whether we should share with you our feelings on something that pains us as much as it gives us joy. Because it involves the Captain and First Officer of this vessel and it is a matter deeply personal for you, we ask with great compassion that you do not see this as an intrusion into your private lives. Rather, we implore that you understand our motivation which is borne out of our love and utmost respect we have for you.

Amidst all you have sacrificed for this ship and this crew - and those sacrifices are many as we have witnessed over the years - the greatest sacrifice have been your personal happiness. There is a dictum that a good, compassionate and strong, effective leader will have a following who will respect and honour and be loyal to that leadership. Such you have both been since the crew of the Liberty and Voyager merged to become one crew. That was the first sacrifice and one that we have all, despite our stuttering beginnings, seen the value and truth of - in unity lies strength.

And so, in the years following that momentous joining of two crews, we have seen time and again the manner in which our command team have shown their leadership which, concomitant with such leadership, is never without a degree of personal sacrifice. Though, as we know both our captain and commander, you would most certainly order us not to feel any guilt or despair at what you have both given up in order to bring us closer to home.

But, you are not happy, and that is what gives us the greatest pain. You hide what you feel and what you feel for one another is a love so tender and so great that you would, for our sakes, not validate it in front of your crew for one and one reason only - to get this ship and this crew home. All of us.

We know - and please, do not feel any shame that we do - that there are occasions that you express this amazing, brilliant love, that you cannot ignore the call of your hearts. Crew have seen you walk the darkened corridors of the ship with your faces wounded from the hiding. The real tragedy is the days following, when you ignore one another and imagine you are so successful at masking this that we don't notice. We do. We do very much. Understand from us that anything that touches the captain and commander touches us too. We feel, we see, we sense the furthest ripple of discord and feel your unhappiness as clearly as we see the stars in the distant dark.

There is not a man or woman among us who would not give his or her blessing on your love. We ask that you don't hide this on our account. We ask that you trust us and explore the faith we have in you. We ask that you believe us when we swear by all that is beautiful and holy, to protect our command team as faithfully and as loyally as they protect us.

Therefore the crew invite you to the observation lounge at 2100, to share in the very great joy of joining in marriage Captain Janeway and Commander Chakotay, of the starship Voyager.

Yours in faith

Your crew

*  
   
   
PART THREE: UNMASKED  
   
She stood motionless, hands clasped behind her back, facing the viewport. She had not stirred the entire time he had read the letter. Cast in muted illumination her lounge felt alien, a strange field of distant dreams only equaled by the stark aloofness of the stars outside.  
   
In his hands the two sheets of the letter trembled like leaves in a gentle breeze. He looked again at the words through eyes in which at first extreme astonishment could hardly digest the knowledge or the truth of them, now filled with something like a misty film. Kathryn, when she handed him the letter, had the same embarrassed bewilderment in her expressive eyes.  
   
That was what hovered between them now - bewilderment.  
   
Written in delicate, exquisite lines of script, the words flew at him again. Each word, each letter connected to the next in the finest lines, curved, cursive, joined inexorably to the next by a thought, a stroke, the gentle tapering of the stroke that simply allowed the eye to grace through the first bold line of the next word, and the next and the next.  
   
Once, he had prided himself on his own excellent penmanship, always allowing his thoughts to progress on crafted paper from the ancient deltas of Egypt. Never had he imagined to explore his feelings, his passion, his very life on  the easy technology the century offered. Everything of himself could only be laid bare on fine papyrus, such as he was holding in his trembling fingers. In his cabin lay hidden from all, even Kathryn, his life, and his love for her in the form of letters, such as the one he held in his hands. Written in the depths of the night when he found it impossible to contain his feelings for her, he poured his heart out in letters written by hand.  
   
Someone wrote this, on behalf of the crew, for the crew, endorsed by the crew; someone with as fine a hand as anything he had ever seen or done himself. There was something, a great comfort and an awful, screaming real purpose in the manner in which the crew sought to communicate their hope and their knowledge. It made everything real, even what they knew of their command team. Not for them, he sensed intuitively, the writing of this letter by electronic means. This was immediate, a palpable, frightening, close-up look at what they were doing to themselves.  
   
From lifeless fingers the two sheets of delicate papyrus floated to the floor and, as if to support its message, lay, face up, so that words like "faith", "loyalty", "respect", "blessing" seemed to rise from the floor like a spectre in the mist to glare at him, at them in benevolence...  
   
Theirs had always been a communication with few words. They sensed, smelled, touched. Upon those they formulated emotions, gave in to the crying needs of their bodies. Upon those they could strip away the symbols that dictated their positions, their rank, their duty, their goal. Upon those they were reminded of the rarity of their times together so that each moment could be recalled and enjoyed in the sanctity of their hearts and minds.  
   
Now they have been stripped of them, unmasked by their loving subjects.  
   
Now, they had nothing, no protection...  
   
Chakotay closed the distance between them. A hand that rose, fell, only to be ordered again to touch her. Soft, a gentle touch that comforted and reassured, a touch that tested...  
   
"Kathryn..."  
   
*  
   
She turned slowly. Her eyes were dark, a deep glow in them. In them flitted embarrassment, disorientation, surprise. Mostly, he thought he saw there relief.  
   
"They know..." she said, her voice low, raspy.  
   
"They care."  
   
Her eyes closed. He drew her into his arms for the first time outside the confines of their forest glade. It was strange holding her like that, holding her close to him that he could smell her hair, inhale her, remember her. Her arms, once at her side, almost hesitantly crept round his waist as if she were exploring the  late sensation and finally finding it pleasing.  
   
"We've never been...like this..."  
   
Her words when it came, were muffled this time, her face buried against his chest, like a small child wanting the closeness of belonging without quite questioning why it needed to belong. Yet, the sound of her words was tinged with exultation too. His eyes stung in the moments Kathryn nestled against him. Only once before they had stood like this, but guilt then had been a sword, a cross that quickly disconnected their bond, making them afraid of carrying that burden again. They resorted to concealment, stealing precious moments from time to time and living off them for months.  
   
Now, as he held her away from him and looked into her eyes, the realisation hit them both - they were stripped of pretence, unmasked with terrifying reality. He thought he read in her eyes a question, one that asked, "where do we go from here?" For they were unused to tenderness, to the solace of grieving openly, to the joy of loving openly, to living. He realised how quiet it was around them as if they were standing in the holodeck, in their beautiful illusion they created where they could live their brand of reality. He realised how little they spoke, how sparse their conversation was, how again, they allowed their emotions to be expressed through touch and smell, sense and taste and texture.  
   
He realised as he bent his head to kiss her, how right she felt in his arms and how words endorsed deeds, how words could be wrested from the very depths of their souls to express their love. He realised as he tasted her, her lips alive under his, how they starved themselves.  
   
He realised that she needed him as much as he needed her now that they drifted in their sea of love, rudderless, but together.  
   
"Where do we go from here, Chakotay?" she asked at length, when she could breathe again.  
   
He released her, bent down to pick up the two pages of the letter and held it to her.  
   
"We trust our crew," he said softly, firmly. "We take a leap of faith with them."  
   
"I'm not used to this," she whispered as she wormed her way into his arms again.  
   
He smiled, for he sensed how very quickly they were getting used to it. But, Kathryn was the captain. Some things never changed and the uncertainly he saw in her eyes reminded him of the young doe on the plains of the Serengeti, just born and treading the ground carefully, testing their growing strength in a world where danger lurked at the next waterhole, where danger camouflaged itself and blended in with the dry veld. They were out in the open now and he understood her fear, understood this new vulnerability about them.  
   
"They will protect us as we will protect them," he asserted, caressing her hair, being wildly elated that he could do it without their shroud of secrecy.  
   
"We have been invited to our own wedding, on the most beautiful paper imaginable. I feel exposed..."  
   
"Kathryn, my love, at 2100  we  must walk through the doors of the observation lounge."  
   
"Who wrote the letter, I wonder?"  
   
She was stalling. It thrilled him, awakened in them a forgotten camaraderie. Though her face was animated, he sensed the reticence.  
   
"Does it matter?" he asked.  
   
"I'm afraid."  
   
"I'll walk with you. I have to, you know."  
   
"I can't do this..."  
   
"Have faith. It's all they ask."  
   
"I'm - "  
   
"Shhh...  
   
***  
   
   
PART FOUR - WAITING  
   
The silence in the observation lounge was tangible. A clock ticked away the seconds in inexorable march to the next minute and the next and the next. Only, there was no clock, no second hand that jagged in erratic evenness counter-clockwise to return, like the rising sun, to its point of origin. It was the heartbeats of those crew present - a soft pulsing in the neck, a twitching of a nerve, a throbbing against the temple, though these were felt rather than heard.  
   
The air was thick with expectation and the waiting unbearable. In a corner a small orchestra was set up. Harry Kim held his clarinet lovingly while Susan Nicoletti's oboe became damp where her fingers clutched the smooth, black facing that covered the reed. Marla Gilmore, forever grateful that Captain Janeway had presented her with extra rations to replicate her beloved violin which replaced the one she had lost on the Equinox, stroked the bow of her instrument thoughtfully as she too, joined in the waiting. She hardly dared look at Ensign Carew who fingered the keys of the small keyboard replicated for the occasion. Carew had wanted to have a whole baby grand in the lounge, even if they had to project the instrument from the holodeck. It could be done, they said, but they had wanted everything as authentic as replicators would allow. The small chamber orchestra was completed by Ensign Vorik who had asked if he too, could be part of the ensemble with the Vulcan lute.  
   
Because Marla and not Harry was regarded as the leader of the small ensemble, she raised her violin, settled it between her chest and chin, raised the arm that held the bow with a small flourish and nodded to the others. As if a conductor stood on a dais, they launched quietly into the first movement of Schubert's Trout Quintet, the keyboard and violin carrying the major melodies of the beautiful music that filled the air and added to the new, soft, benevolent depth.  
   
Naomi Wildman fretted.  
   
"They're not coming, Mom," she whispered to her mother. A scented bouquet of peace roses in her hands very nearly fell to the floor as she dropped her arms and looked at Samantha. Sam Wildman touched the top of her daughter's head, a gesture that was meant to reassure.  
   
Next to Naomi stood Icheb, still as only he could reprise his stance during his regeneration period. The small, white satin cushion rested on his palms. He had balked that his age alone precluded him from participating in something meant for little boys dressed in white satin shirts, frilly jabots and black satin breeches like miniature Napoleons.  
   
He was told by none other than Seven of Nine to shut up and contribute, he'd never have the opportunity again of being a ring bearer. His response that little girls like Naomi Wildman were better suited for the task had the girl glare at him like Captain Janeway, and who told him she could only be a flower girl and not a page boy.  
   
"I am not a page," had been his rejoinder. The little squabble had been interrupted by again, Seven of Nine who told them in no uncertain terms that she would never tutor them again. It may have been a good thing that Seven of Nine never saw their relieved smirks the moment her back was turned to them.  
   
"They're not coming," Naomi repeated her words, her voice sounding plaintive, her eyes filling with tears. "It's already twenty minutes gone…"  
   
"We wait, honey."  
   
"Oh, Mom, they're not coming. They didn't listen to us."  
   
Sam Wildman sighed. She was beginning to wonder too whether they had done the right thing asking the Captain and Commander to attend their own wedding. But, she remembered their nights and days of quiet, desperate discussions. She remembered the first time Tom Paris had broached the idea to them. He had been angry, and had a hard time containing himself after witnessing one dark night the captain leaving the holodeck in tears. She hadn't seen him, thought no one saw her. That had been the pattern the last years, and it left them distressed that their command team suppressed all their feelings like that.  
   
"We have to tell them we love them."  
   
"We fully understand they want to get us home and all, but…"  
   
"They observe the law. What's wrong with that? Only that it leaves them with nothing for themselves, that's what."  
   
"We should do something. Tip their hands, you know."  
   
"Something… There's an idea. We have to be very diplomatic."  
   
"How are we going to assure them we don't mind them holding hands and being free to love?"  
   
They had deliberated long over what they proposed to do. She couldn't look at Captain Janeway again without seeing the captain's doleful eyes, the deep sadness she thought no one saw. She didn't think she could look again at Commander Chakotay without seeing the stiff  way in which his mouth was drawn every time he walked past the captain, or they sat together in the mess hall eating their meals in complete silence.  
   
She prayed they would listen to their hearts and listen to the hearts of their crew, penned in the most beautiful way just so that they could see their crew meant well and they had their crew's blessing.  
   
Tom Paris stood next to his wife and cursed under his breath.  
   
"Almost an hour gone, B'Elanna."  
   
"Maybe the bride is late?" she replied, trying to sound cheerful. Her eyes though, were heated, angry. "If they don't come, they will never. Tom, I think I'm going to break something."  
   
"Maybe we should take to heart the contents of our letter. We told them to have faith. We told them to trust us and trust themselves. We should have faith that they will come. Just…be patient. It will happen…"  
   
And so they stood, waiting.  
   
The orchestra was playing the second variation of the quintet when they all heard a sound at the entrance to the observation lounge. Tuvok's ears pricked. Naomi gave a whispered gasp. Icheb looked relieved.  
   
Another silence hovered, full as the warmth of a late afternoon in summer.  
   
For perhaps a full ten seconds no one breathed as the bow stroked the strings of the violin, fingers flew like silvery drops of water over the keys of the small keyboard, a nightingale's voice sounded up from the clarinet and oboe until, quietly, the music faded to reverent silence…  
   
They appeared like sylphs from the darkness, bringing with them light - two figures that stood just inside the entrance of the lounge. Tom Paris thought he would remember the tableau to his dying day. All sounds after that faded...faded as the air brought them forward, slowly.  
   
The music had started up, an introduction for the EMH, who began singing as Captain Janeway and Commander Chakotay walked towards them to where Tuvok was ready to perform the ceremony. The words of the art song fitted the occasion, but more than that, Seven of Nine thought with great kindness, they were the expression of the commander's love for his Captain. She had been asked to nominate art songs from the Scandinavian countries and suggested that the  Doctor sing in the original Danish.  
   
In all his photonic glory the words of the passionate song rolled from his lips.  
   
Min Tankes Tanke ene du er vorden,  
Du er mit Hjertes første Kærlighed.  
Jeg elsker Dig, som Ingen her på Jorden,  
Jeg elsker Dig i Tid og Evighed!  
   
Tom Paris felt his heart burst with pride. Captain Janeway didn't hook her arm through Chakotay's like the millions of brides of the past. They had entered, her hand clasped in his. It was too profound, the instant recognition about the way they held hands, symbolising more than anything complete trust and faith rather than possession. No, Captain Janeway didn't hang on the Commander's arm. She was not the hanging type, he thought. She didn't cling and he didn't hold her up like a crutch. Hand in hand, equals in everything, their vulnerability something mutual and private, something to be treasured and protected forever.  
   
They saw what they had dreamed about for years.  
   
Every crewman and officer present who had the golden honour of sharing this moment with Janeway and Chakotay saw on the couple's faces their resolve, their love, their bond in the way they held hands. They were dressed, not in wedding garments, but their dress uniform. Stark, brilliant red, their insignias clear and shiny, it told Tom more about their resolve than had Kathryn Janeway been in a white bridal gown with a ten foot long train and Chakotay had been dressed in a black tailsuit, white shirt and cravat.  
   
Their message was clear. The entire crew saw, from all who were present there, to James Hamilton at the conn watching with the rest of the skeleton bridge crew the proceedings on the main viewscreen. All doubt fled, flew towards the viewports, insinuated itself into the panes and floated away unseen, to join with old nebulas and new nebulas, supernovas and just plain bright stars that appeared to wink at them.  
   
As they looked at each of the crew in turn, and as Kathryn Janeway bent to take the bouquet of peace roses from Naomi, and as Chakotay looked at Kathryn, his eyes clear, unmasked, untainted by guilt and shame and embarrassment, Tom Paris had some thoughts inspired not by the irony of their dress, but by the examples set by others in Starfleet for generations.  
   
Except the command team, he, more than any other officer on board Voyager understood the workings of Federation Rules, the Prime Directives, the guidelines set out for every young cadet who entered Starfleet, seeking to make his or her way into a world where men and women were, contrary to the ideals of freedom of association slotted into niches of behaviour. Kathryn Janeway was a woman, a captain of a Starship, a female captain who because of her sex, had to conform. Not only that, her own propensity for guilt in the face of things like dereliction of duty, of lofty goals that of Federation necessity, had to come before everything else, made her the ideal candidate to hate herself and to deprive herself of everything that made her woman, human.  
   
He had grown up with the Federation rulebook as his gospel. His parents were themselves Starfleet officers, and so was Kathryn Janeway's father. The same Federation whose insignia gracing the screen of every monitor on every Starship that proclaimed enlightenment, couldn't be enlightened enough to allow its office bearers freedom.  
   
It lay down rules for fraternisation, issued guidelines for behaviour of its most senior officers, commanders, captains and admirals. It told its members  to be careful; it demanded obedience in all aspects of their lives and it demoted where these rules were broken. It caused its members to become afraid to explore crucial aspects of their beings - their emotions, and matters of the heart. It caused its members to suppress those emotions until their task was completed. It wanted officers of the finest calibre, ones who put the Federation before all else, ones who accepted the Federation's creed, ones who would lay down their lives for their cause, ones who would become heroes, their names engraved on plaques that graced the bridges of starships.  
   
For all, Tom Paris thought, that the Federation succeeded in these things, it could never succeed in keeping its members apart. It could never put a noose around a captain's heart and squeeze all feeling from it. It could never understand that its members were humans with their own frailties, yet with the unquestionable ability to find ways and means of expressing love, passion.  
   
The Federation could hold sacred its directives into the 29th century, but it could never stop a captain from loving.  
   
Tom sought B'Elanna's hand and squeezed it gently, the example set by Captain Janeway and Commander Chakotay quickly infecting other crew. They felt trust, not possession, faith, not blind devotion, blessing, not censure.  
   
Icheb looked proud.  
   
A voice rang up, a beautiful light soprano voice. Tom remembered how his mother used to sing that very tune on the day of her wedding anniversary and how his father's eyes, once so stern, so imbued with Federation policy, would fill with tears as he joined his wife in song in his own croaky voice.  
   
Count your blessings while you may;  
the big or small, whichever comes your way.  
For then you'll find this world a place of love,  
if you will count your blessings from above.  
   
As the last notes faded away and as Tom looked at Ensign Golwat, he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.  
   
In a daze he heard Tuvok's voice later, "You may kiss the bride…"  
   
*  
   
In a small cabin on deck fifteen, a young crewman stood at her console and watched Captain Janeway and Commander Chakotay kiss. She had asked not to be present. It was the only request she had made. Her face was lit by a beatific smile even as her trembling fingers rested against her lips and she tried to stem the tears that formed in her eyes.  
   
In her hand she held a sheet of the most delicate papyrus on which she had written the words:  
   
Thou art my thoughts, my present and my future,  
Thou are my heart's supreme, its only joy.  
I love thee more than any earthly creature,  
I love thee dear, I love thee dear  
I love thee now and for eternity.  
   
***  
   
THE END


End file.
